


If Fishes Were Wishes

by fairywine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, genfic, ridiculous self indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywine/pseuds/fairywine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fishing and father-daughter time, Scandinavian style. [Denmark + OC!Faroes]</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Fishes Were Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme fill for [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20236.html?thread=78139404), Denmark being a dad, with this fill in particular featuring OC!Faroes, OC!Åland, background Åland/Faroes and DenNor. However, the focus is predominantly on platonic!father + daughter!Denmark and Faroes. On another note: reading [Mid-Winter Luck](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6615980/1/MidWinter_Luck) by Morrigan Fearn would enhance enjoyment of this fill for two reasons. (A. It’s a really, really good fic that needs more love, and (b. this anon is not the author but we co-share enough head!canon regarding Åland, Faroes, and the particulars of the relationship they share with each other as well as their respective parents so as to be almost indistinguishable. This also is intended to have taken place with the events of Mid-Winter Luck having occurred (this being set around the early nineties), although they aren’t referenced.

In many respects the scene on the Tórshavn docks hasn’t really changed in centuries but for dressage-wooden poles for fiberglass and steel, longships for modern trawlers, flasks for tumblers. But the fishermen stand upon the slatted wood with the same steady concentration as their fathers, and their fathers’ fathers before them, among the drifting morning mists sliced through here and there with weak sunlight. Denmark shifts where he sits cross-legged, making himself more comfortable while he waits for the tell-tale tugging of the line.

“Coffee, anko?” The young woman next to him says, nudging him gently with the thermos.

“Nah. I’m good.” Denmark waves Faroes’ offer aside, the thought rising up that _some_ things definitely have changed over the passage of time. It hadn’t been so long ago that she had been a little girl barely reaching his waist, all huge dark blue eyes and pale gold hair. Not a young lady of apparently twenty years, composed and boldly confident. Just seven hundred or so years ago in the days of the Kalmar Union, hardly any time at all really. Right?

“Suit yourself,” Faroes says, cutting into his train of thought before he could depress himself too much. She pours out some of the steaming brew into a ready mug, giving Denmark one of those sunshine smiles as her lips hover above the rim. “But hey, you can use the time to catch up.”

Her gaze flicks meaningfully to the two coolers behind them-hers white and containing three fish, his red and containing just one. Denmark’s mouth twitches with the effort of holding back his smile as he levels the sternest glance he’s capable of mustering at her. The way Faroes’ eyes dance reveal she’s not fooled in the slightest, but the overly innocent expression she has shows her willingness to play along.

“Sure, if numbers are all we’re taking into account. But _my_ catch is still bigger than any of yours.”

“And all of _my_ catches together still amount to more weight than your one fish.” Faroes’ long blonde hair, braided back for today’s excursion, is tossed over her shoulder with royal gravitas not the least bit offset by her casual look of jeans and a worn Faroe Islands Football Association t-shirt. They eye each other, periwinkle blue to midnight sea, before cracking up into laughter almost simultaneously.

After a couple moments Denmark finally regains control, taking in deep gulps of air so clean and crisp you could bottle and sell it. “Well, I’m sunk now. Every fish in the area’s probably fled from the noise.”

Faroes shrugs it off, doing an experimental little tug of her line. “Top-dwellers, maybe, but it’s the bottom ones we want anyway. Think of it as clearing the excess off, Åland says.”

Denmark reaches to the side, ostensibly to attach more bait but really to hide the look he’s pulling. A face flashes across his mind’s eye despite his best efforts, that of a young man who in build, features, coloring, more ways than he cared to think about-is altogether too _Swedish_ in nature for Denmark to like and not nearly Finnish enough for him to forgive. The fact that while Sweden merely _appears_ to be glaring out everyone in sight, whereas Åland’s perpetual grouchy the-universe-has-taken-the-last-of-the-coffee-and-I-haven’t-had-a-single-cup-yet expression is entirely genuine doesn’t help matters either.

And he’s dating Denmark’s daughter. Not strictly speaking his own flesh, with her blood harkening back to those first Norwegians who saw waters rich with fish, greenery ample to support sheep, and called the land their own, Føroyar. But in all the ways that really count, she’s his family.

Denmark’s still not sure exactly where he messed up as far as her taste in a boyfriend went, though. Being raised by him, shouldn’t she have had the good sense to disdain anything remotely Sweden-like?

“ _Anko_ ,” Faroes says. Denmark can hear the frown in her voice, pitched perfectly to that tone meaning ‘I am not happy with you’ all women seem to possess. “I can see that, you know.”

“See what-” Denmark automatically starts to defensively ask, before looking down and realizing his reflection is all too clear in the waters. “Damn.”

There’s a long silence, made all the more painful not just because Faroes is angry with him. She’s disappointed too, which is infinitely harder to bear. Finally, the girl sighs, and the frustration in it stings.

“Maybe I could understand if there was something really objectionable. But Åland’s never done anything to warrant how hard you are on him.” Denmark opens his mouth to protest, but is cut off by a glare so utterly Norway-like-fit to slice you straight to the marrow and then some-that he shuts it out of sheer reflex. “And no, just being Sweden’s son does _not_ count.”

“Does so,” Denmark mutters under his breath, and continues in a louder voice before Faroes can call him out on it, “Look, I just want what’s best for you.”

“Oh?” Faroes raises a brow him, and that’s another Norway-like face she’s making. It’s a little disconcerting, considering how strongly she already resembles the man. But blood is so very telling, sometimes. “And tell me then, who would pass under these rigorous standards of yours?”

There’s a pause as Denmark thinks this over. It is not a short one.

“Well,” Denmark says brightly, “I’m sure you could live a very rich and fulfilling life without any need for romanc-ow!”

“Not funny, anko.” Faroes withdraws her fishing rod from the abrupt contact it had made with the back of Denmark’s skull without missing a beat. “What do you want, to lock me up in some ivory tower for the rest of forever?”

“I promise it’d be a very nice tower! Finest marble straight from Italy, and only the most bloodthirsty Great White sharks for the moat.” Denmark gestures expansively, encouraged by the fact she’s obviously trying hard not to smile. “Nor’ll summon an entire army of trolls to stand guard-you’ll be the envy of fairytale girls across all of Europe-”

“These days I don’t think Father could pull off an entire troll army,” Faroes interrupts as she gives in to the grin fighting its way to the surface. “Maybe a squad, but not an army.”

“Don’t say that to his face. He wouldn’t take it well, even coming from you,” Denmark says, getting a quick nod of agreement from her. They both know Norway well enough not to underestimate his sense of vindictiveness.

“My survival instinct isn’t that weak,” Faroes says. She pauses, weighing her words. “But can’t you ease up on Åland just a little? Between you and Father and everyone else, it’s really starting to wear on him, and that’s making me upset too.”

“I’m not doing it for my own entertainment…okay, mostly. It’s just that…” Denmark trails off, struggling to put exactly what drives him in a way Faroes would understand. It’s not just the kid’s unfortunate ancestry, or that he’s just doing his duty as a long time protectorate. Daughters are special. Faroes is special, and it’s been that way since the early days when all of Northern Europe was his. The time that happy little girl who so resembled Norge first came into his life, a cheerful beacon in a house full of people reluctant to be there at best and eagerly seeking any avenue of escape at worst. _‘Hállo! Eg eiti Føroyar!’_ , were her first words to him in that lilting young voice, and all it took for her to successfully clear out a part of Denmark’s heart all her own. Years pass, borders shift, but that affection has always been one of the few constants of his long existence as a Nation.

“Anko?”

Still, that’s more raw and personal than even Denmark is comfortable with sharing. He tries to think of anything he could say instead, like how he thinks Faroes is the prettiest of any of the girls he knows and therefore way out of the league of any scowly Fenno-Swedes-

“Ankooooo-”

Who are also totally undeserving of Faroes’ bright personality and warm nature. How could someone whose moods only came in flavors like pissed off, grumpy, and sullen ever hope to make his little girl happy, to understand her? What does the boy even know about relationships, period? He’s what, two hundred years old, hardly any time at all to really be experienced at this sort of thing by the reckoning of Nations-

“Okay, the staring blankly into space was funny at first but I’m really starting to worry now.”

-Denmark bets Åland doesn’t even know what Faroes’ favorite flower is (marsh marigold, along with a secret fondness for tulips he’s pretty sure Netherlands had a hand in), or her favorite food (fish and chips, of all things). And those are just the basics-he’s positive something as important as, say, an anniversary would be beyond Åland in all his tainted-by-Sweden-ness. He’ll forget, or if he does remember, get Faroes a bad present, and then Denmark will have to go kill him for being a terrible boyfriend. Which will naturally prompt retaliation from Sweden and Finland, and it’ll be the Danish-Swedish Wars all over again because there’s no way Norway wouldn’t side with him where Faroes is concerned. So really, in order to avoid all of Northern Europe falling into conflict, Åland will just have to date someone else. It’s perfectly logical-

“ _Pápi_!”

That snaps Denmark out of it, if only because being called _father_ makes him first look out reflexively for Germania and then feel depressed upon remembering the man has been dead for almost fifteen hundred years. Among other things.

“I know, I know,” Faroes says upon receiving his meaningful look. The understanding that while Denmark essentially is her father, or at least one of them, but doesn’t like to be titled as such is one they’ve had for a long time. Other people don’t usually get it, but that’s something neither of them has ever cared about. “But nothing else was working.”

“Makes me feel old,” Denmark says, and it’s not a welcome sensation. He’s been around a long time, not as long as someone like China but still enough years to feel the dark, heavy chill of ages past in his bones and blood. Denmark doesn’t like that all-encompassing exhaustion even the strongest of them can succumb to.

“You _are_ old,” Faroes tells him without hesitating, but she lays her head sweetly against his shoulder and it’s enough to take the bite out of her blunt words. Some of it, anyway.

“I got life in me yet, Færøerne. Enough to deal with any upstart Fenno-Swede men who try to prey on nice young ladies suffering from inexplicable lapses in judgment and taste-”

“Taste?” Faroes gives him a Look, one deserving of the capitalization. “I don’t think you want to go down that road, anko.”

“Come on, Åland’s sarcastic, grumpy, you never know what he’s actually thinking, getting him to be emotionally honest is like trying to pull teeth from a dragon, always frowning…I could go on all day! I’ll never understand what you find so appealing about him.”

“Yes, it is indeed a mystery as to what influenced me to find all those qualities so appealing in a partner,” Faroes says in a perfect, dry deadpan while eyeing him pointedly. “Perhaps I should have you describe what you like about Father to me, since he obviously has none of the personality traits you find so disagreeable in my boyfriend.”

“When Norge does it, it’s in a _loving_ way. It’s how he shows he cares!” Denmark says, offended by Faroes’ attempt to drag Norway down to Åland’s level. Doesn’t she understand all the difference between her father’s…special manner of sharing his feelings and the straight up sarcasm that seems to be the Fenno-Swede’s only means of expression?

Before Denmark can lecture her on all the manifold differences (and actually think of some), there’s a mild tugging at the line he’d almost forgotten about. The Dane tightens his grip on the pole just before the mild tugging turns into a fierce one and he finds himself having to put some real muscle into keeping it held.

“Looks like you got a big one,” Faroes says, eyes lighting up with interest at how much effort he’s expanding. “Haddock, judging by the fight he’s putting up.”

“Feels more like a whale,” Denmark grunts, reeling in line with all the upper-arm strength he can muster. Just as he can see the white scaled fish in the rolling waters, literally putting up the struggle of its life, it makes one final attempt at bolting. The force is enough to send the reel slipping out of his fingers, lashing against his knuckles in a way that tells him there will be bruises later. Still, there’s no way he’s letting his prize escape by this point. Denmark forces the pain down and reels fiercely to drag the haddock out of the water to be dropped into the net Faroes has ready and waiting.

It flops weakly to and fro in one last show of defiance, gleaming wet ivory in the light. Faroes was right in her earlier assessment-the haddock is quite big, at least ten kilograms if Denmark is any judge. Maybe even more. The grin spreads across his face-he’s _so_ still got it.

“Oh, he’s a beauty!” Faroes holds out the cosh to him as she casts an admiring eye over the fish. “You don’t usually see haddock that large these days. Typical amateur’s luck for you.” She shakes her head as if to make some sad note of the triumph of fortune over skill in fishing. “So, ready to send him to the big sea in the sky?”

“Fare thee well, brave warrior,” Denmark announces with total solemnity, raising the cosh with one hand as he makes the sign of Thor’s hammer with his other, the motion coming easily despite the fact he hasn’t done it for a good thousand years. That done, he swiftly brings the instrument down on the haddock’s head, ending its life with one quick blow. “Your sacrifice will not be wasted.”

“I’ll say. That was quite the catch, anko.” Faroes watches him pack the fish away in his red cooler, and something in her voice goes nostalgic. “I guess this means an extra big wish for you.”

Denmark glances at her and the girl flushes like she’s a bit embarrassed. “Don’t you remember? Back when I was little and we’d go fishing together, you told me I’d get a wish for every fish I caught so I wouldn’t get discouraged easily.”Her expression eases slightly as she leans back, a fond smile playing across her face. “Big wishes for big fish, little wishes for little fish. It always made me so happy whenever I’d find some little toy or treat under my pillow after a long day at sea.”

“Well, the _Fishing Fairy_ ,” Denmark carefully emphasizes, “Was just acknowledging what a hard working girl you were. Very thoughtful fellow, I hear.”

“Anko, there’s no need to keep up the act at my age,” Faroes says, rolling her eyes. “I stopped believing in the Fishing Fairy around the same time I figured out you and Father didn’t really spend your nights ‘wrestling’ together.”

Denmark is pretty proud of how quickly he managed to trump the choking fit that nearly overwhelmed him. “Hey, with Norge you’d be surprised how little distinction there is sometimes-”

“No need to elaborate on my behalf,” Faroes interrupts him, holding out her hand as if to physically halt him from continuing. There’s a pause as if she’s really making sure he’s not going to keep talking before she adds, “But you know, I still go and make those wishes even now. It can’t hurt, right? So you may as well make yours.”

Make a wish, huh? The funny thing is that Denmark can’t think of anything he really wants for himself, not really. His life is pretty damn good, he has Norge, peace and prosperity, and time enough to spend a lazy Sunday morning fishing with his daughter. Well, he does wish Faroes would date someone else, but he has a feeling a wish like that would backfire on him horribly and earn her wrath in the bargain. Maybe he can hold it in reserve.

Denmark glances at Faroes, out of the corner of his eye, and thinks if he wished for nothing more for her to be always filled with that bright warmth it would be a very good use of a wish indeed. Unfortunately, his traitorous mind supplies a memory where Faroes’ face was just like it is now- _end of the monthly Nordic Council meeting and he’s looking around for Faroes, having already collected a recalcitrant Greenland. It’s her laugh ringing in the air that shows him the way to her. Faroes stands next to Åland, talking to him about who knows what, but her face is fit to light up the room and she looks so happy_ -

The Dane’s been on the losing side of things enough times to feel when it’s about to happen to him again. Still, he’s nothing if not stubborn, and a firm believer in holding out till the very end.

“Færøerne…” Denmark begins reluctantly, causing the girl to look up from where she is rebaiting his hook with a herring. “You really like the bas… Åland that much?”

Faroes isn’t expecting the question, he can tell. She doesn’t answer right away, probably because she’s still working out just how sincere he’s being about the whole matter. But when she does reply, it’s without hesitation, steady as a mountain.

“I do,” Faroes says, and the gentle way her lips curve up is so tender it almost aches. “I always have.”

If only there had been sugary sweetness to her words, girlish infatuation in her expression. Denmark could have dealt with those, brushed them and this whole thing with Sweden’s boy off as a fleeting thing. But he can’t dismiss that expression, because it mirrors the one he gets on his face those rare mornings he wakes up before Norway and it’s just the two of them in a quiet, peaceful world, the bed and rumpled sheets and just enjoying the way Norge looks when he sleeps.

Denmark feels very worn down all of the sudden. He’s been defeated before, but never quite like this.

“Fresh haddock’s a rare treat,” Denmark finally says, tone casual. “And really, this one’s too big for just me and Nor.” As Faroes blinks at him, obviously wondering where he’s going with this, he continues, “If you and Åland are free tonight, you two should come over and help us finish it up.”

Faroes presses her lips together in flat, serious line, but he can read the smile in her eyes. “You’re inviting Åland over to dinner? Really, anko…dinner, and not a thinly veiled excuse for social torment?”

“Really. Alright, with maybe a dash of social torment, but what kind of parent would I be if I made it totally easy for him?” Denmark takes his fishing pole, casts again with a single swoop to let the line plonk into the water. “Some things you’ve got to earn. If he’s any sort of man, he’ll understand that.”

“I’ll extend your generous invitation to Åland, then,” Faroes says, not bothering to hide the womanly undertones of ‘men are so primitive with their posturing’ lacing her voice. They sit in companionable silence for a moment or two before she asks, “Should we bring anything over?”

“Dessert works,” Denmark says. “If it’s something good.”

* * *

 

It is, Faroes thinks to herself later that day, a little like the Cold War. At least as far as the two sides with arms at ready, waiting for the other to make a move part went. The stakes may have not been as high as potential World War III, but on the other hand they are a lot more personal in nature.

Both Åland and Denmark are scowling; not an unusual state of affairs for her boyfriend, but very out of the ordinary for her normally easygoing father. It’s not making Faroes feel any better about tonight-she wants things to go well so Denmark and the whole brigade of people he’s coerced, bribed, or used other means to convince she shouldn’t be within a hundred yards of the Fenno-Swede much less going out with him, will stop harassing Åland at every given opportunity. She squeezes her boyfriend’s hand, and finds the way his stiff shoulders lose some of their tension a little comforting.

“Oh, good. We were wondering when you were gonna show.” Denmark leans against the doorway, and there’s so much male posturing going on now it’s driving Faroes slowly crazy. The look he gives Åland, amplified by the height advantage being on the step gives him (not much, considering her boyfriend is only a little bit shorter than the Dane), wouldn’t have looked out of place on some ancient god of the vengeful blood-and-brimstone sort.

“Anko, we’re twenty minutes early,” Faroes says slowly in an effort to rein in her temper. “I hope you’re going to let us inside at some point. The dessert needs to go in the fridge, for one thing.”

“Dessert? What’d you bring?” Denmark asks, moving aside just enough to let them in, and taking his time to do it.

“Prinsesstårta,” Åland speaks up for the first time, giving Denmark that something that can only be called a smile because his lips are turning up and his teeth showing in neat white rows. Deadly silence reigns while Faroes mentally curses herself out for thinking there couldn’t be any harm in letting Åland pick the dessert. “I’m sure it’ll be to your taste.”

“How… _Swedish_ ,” Denmark says, and he’s smiling back like a wolf closing in on its prey. “It’s good to keep in mind your roots, they say.”

They glare each other down while Faroes flees to the kitchen with the cake. Norway is there, checking on the haddock poaching in a heavenly smelling mixture of butter and fresh herbs. Potatoes are boiling in an old, heavy pot on the burner and root vegetables are roasting nicely in the oven, creating an aroma she would find mouth-watering under less stressful circumstances. As it is Faroes barely manages to resist the urge to cling to the Norwegian like a drowning man to a lifesaver. If she can count on anyone to be sensible about this, it’s him.

“Father, please!” Faroes says as she tucks the cake carefully in the refrigerator. “Come out there with me, I’m afraid they’re going to try to kill each other in a couple of seconds.”

Norway’s expression doesn’t change that noticeably, even in the eyes of someone used to his more subtle moods. He stirs about the sauce serenely for a few moments, then covers it securely and turns the burner down to a simmer.

“No, anko’s too dense to actually die.” The gentlest of eyebrow lifts is sent Faroes’ way, and the feeling in her stomach right now must be that of the slow, painful death of hope. “I can’t say how long the boy will last, though. Should be interesting.”

“You too…I thought you at least would act reasonably!” Faroes says, completing the accusatory tone with a reprimanding poke to the chest.

“Not in this,” Norway replies mildly, the gleam of sadistic amusement growing steadily evident in eyes just a shade or two lighter than her own. “I’ll go get the wine out.”

“Pour me out a glass,” Faroes says wearily, giving up. “I think I’m going to need it.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> [1] Hállo! Eg eiti Føroyar!- Faroese for “Hello! My name is Faroes!”
> 
> [2] Pápi-Faroese for “Father”.
> 
> [3] The Faroe Islands are one of the few places haddock can be sustainably fished these days. One weighing 10 kilograms would be over 20 pounds, which is possible but definitely not common.
> 
> [4] Prinsesstårta- Sweden’s famous princess cake, light and fluffy with a jam and crème filling and covered with green meringue. Åland doesn’t get along that great with Sweden for various reasons, but he overcame it long enough to piss Denmark off by making him socially obliged (i.e., Faroes would give him sad puppy eyes of guilt if he didn’t do it) to eat a Swedish dessert. But it’s okay! They will grow to like each other when they find the common ground of being annoyed with Sweden.


End file.
